Ghost Blue

Ghost Blue

Mama used to say cemeteries were “hallowed ground.” Not to Elle. To Elle, cemeteries were a sandbox of possibility. 

When Elle and her sister Ana were kids, they would spend every free moment at the cemetery. They would bolt across Cherry Avenue’s four lanes of traffic, swing themselves over the cast-iron picket fence, and shelter underneath the big oak. Then, as always, Ana would ask the all-important question: “What do you hear?” 

Elle would close her eyes. Of course, she’d hear the sounds of a bustling New England day, the whine of cars as they zipped across Cherry Avenue, the wind whipping through the boughs of the oak. Then Elle’s skin would tingle, as if someone poured hot water over her in an ice-cold room, but not because of the harsh wind that howled between gravestones. 

Because of the faint sound of a guttural moan, tugging on the edge of her senses. 

Blue. That’s the color that Elle would see when she closed her eyes, the color accompanying the sound that felt like it had been dredged up from the edges of time. 

It wasn’t a normal blue, either. It was bright, yet translucent, almost cyan, almost white, almost gray. The first time Elle described the color to Ana, Ana called it “ghost blue.” From then on, anytime she saw it, sitting under a tree in a cemetery that felt frozen in time, she would always tell Ana, “I see ghost blue.” 

Then Elle would whisper a name, first and last, picturing them in her head—the way they walked with a limp, the dimple on their right cheek when they broke out in a smile, whether or not they wore that floral print scarf on their head like a Babushka, what color their eyes twinkled when sunlight hit them. And gradually, as if someone was turning up the volume on the radio, she could begin to hear the voices. 

What do you hear?

The first time she tried it, Elle whispered the name of the old lady next door that had died from breast cancer—Mrs. Anya Orlov. Elle was six when Mama had dragged her and Ana in tight itchy black dresses to the cemetery. 

Elle had been scared of the cemetery then, of the way those gravestones protruded out of the earth like jagged teeth, threatening to eat her up and swallow her whole to join the other dead. While the adults made small talk, ate small bites, and shed small tears, Elle ran away from it all—to the great towering oak.

Into the bark of the gnarled oak, she wept for Mrs. Orlov, picturing the way those warm wrinkled hands always clasped together when she told a story. “Mrs. Orlov,” she whispered, “I miss you.”

That’s when Elle heard the soft groan and saw the flash of blue behind her eyes.

Elle’s eyes shot open, and she whirled around, examining the oak and the space around her. Not a soul in sight. But—she’d heard Mrs. Orlov. She wanted to hear her again. She closed her eyes. 

The color blue floated back to her, and so did the groan. The noise seemed to come from the earth itself, reverberating in the very air she breathed, resounding in her lungs. But gradually, it shifted into something else. A warble, like someone was trying to talk with their mouth full of water. And then—

“Little Elina. It’s nice to hear your voice again.” 

~

Elina Petrov could talk to the dead. There was no way around it—no way to chalk it up to science or a trick of the air. It was just something she could do when she was close to their dead bodies. Like in a cemetery.

Naturally, her sister Ana knew. Elle couldn’t keep a thing like that from her. But they both agreed, at the ripe young ages of six and seven, never to tell another soul. It was just their little secret. Until Ana died. 

It was evening. Ana and Elle always tempted fate when they bolted across Cherry Avenue, but the two Petrov sisters didn’t worry about a little thing like Death. 

So when the black Mercedes hit Ana head on, when Elle heard the crunch of her sister’s bones beneath the car, the thought didn’t fully register that Ana was dead. I can talk to her, Elle thought. She’s not really gone if I can still talk to her. 

Mama was a different story. The whole of Cherry Avenue heard Mama’s wails that night. Elle simply sat in a corner, waiting for the day of her sister’s funeral. The day when she could talk to her sister again. 

Elle didn’t let herself cry. Didn’t let herself picture her sister’s soft brown curls or dimpled smile. Didn’t let herself picture the games of hopscotch they played together at recess or the way Ana bent over to help Elle with her homework because Mama couldn’t speak English. No. Not until I see her again. 

The funeral came and went. As soon as the service in Russian had concluded, sad Babushkas dabbed their eyes and forlorn Dyadyas huddled away from the women to sip wine and talk politics, but Elle? Elle ran. She ran to the oak before Mama or anyone else could stop her. She ran with a smile, letting the cold violent wind whip through her blond curls, because—she was going to talk to her sister again. 

Settling under the oak as if she was settling down to read a bedtime story, Elle let the memory of her sister wash over her and smiled, waiting for the flash of ghost blue. 

It never came. 

What do you hear? 

Wind ruffled the leaves of the oak, the tree creaked and shuddered, Mama wailed, and—no Ana. 

No, no, no—it can’t be. She could hear her sister’s voice saying “What do you hear?” over and over again, but—nothing else. No blue. No groan. No Ana. 

The tears came in full force now, mostly out of anger. How could this happen? How could she talk to the dead every day except for the day it counted? How—

Maybe Mama was right. Maybe the cemetery was “hallowed ground” and treating it like a sandbox had disrespected it. Maybe it was angry. 

Why did you take her? 

Elle whispered the thought to her trusty oak, to the gravestones that had once felt like friends but had turned into jagged teeth once again. A thought came to her. What if the cemetery gave me that gift, and it took something in return? 

Well, you won’t get the best of me. I’m going to get my sister back. 

~

Five years later, Elle sat, head in her hands, under the oak. “You’re nineteen and spend all your time at that goddamn cemetery anyway,” Mama had told Elle when she’d kicked her out of the house. “It’s as if both my daughters died that day.”

But Elle didn’t care. You’ll see, Once I can talk to her again, you’ll see. 

When she started to see the dead instead of just hearing them, when ghosts that could move things, she knew she was getting closer. She had to be. 

“El-eee-na.” 

Elle’s eyes darted around, her heart clenching in her chest. “Who is it now?” Elle called into the bitter icy air. 

“You know me.” And there she was—Mrs. Orlov, in her ghost blue form. 

The air shook with a thousand other hissing whispers, “Elina, dear.” “Come to see us.” “Call us again.” But Elle ignored them, despite the chills sent down their spine. “Mrs. Orlov! I—” 

“Give up, child.” 

“What?” Elle stopped in her tracks, dumbfounded. “Why?” 

“Look at what it has done to you.” 

“I’m not a child anymore, Anya. I’m closer to finding my sister than ever.” 

“Dear, Anastasia has gone Beyond. She went to the Higher Plane. Her soul doesn’t belong in this Plane with the wicked souls. Frankly, neither do I.” She paused, shuddering at fragments of the dead’s fervid whispers infusing themselves into the frigid February air. But fixing her eye on Elle, a wave of sympathy washed over her; her transparent cheeks crinkled. “Give up your gift, dear. Sacrifice it back to this hallowed earth, or your soul will remain in this Plane forever.” 

Elle mulled over Anya’s words, staring through her so that the graying hillsides were now awash with that familiar ghost blue. Elle shut her eyes, tried to picture life without her gift. Her curse. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t give that away—even the chance to see her sister again. Eyes still shut, Elle spat,

“Well, you’ve done your job, Anya. Now leave.”

And just like that, Anya was gone, replaced by a stout ghost blue spinster with a missing eye. Betty Meyers.

“What do you have for me?” Elle questioned, forcing the interaction with Mrs. Orlov out of her mind. 

“Go home, pluck a hair from your mother’s head, and bring it to me,” the old woman said with a hitch in her voice. “Then you’ll see your sister again.” 

Without a word, Elle strode out of the cemetery, darting between traffic. Not a single car honked at her. 

“Mama?” Elle eased open the door. The woman was sitting on the moth-eaten couch, listening to a man blabber on the news about an oil crisis. “Mama?” Elle said again, stepping closer. Mama ignored her.

“Mama!” Elle said, striding over to her and grabbing a fistful of her hair. 

Except—she grabbed nothing. Baffled, she tried again. Nothing. She passed through her mother. Passed through her. Like a ghost would.

I’m dead already. 

“Mama!” Mama’s glassy eyes reflected the news. “Mama, please!” Listen to me.” Elle sobbed, Mrs. Orlov's warning boring into her brain. All she wanted to do was talk to someone real again. Mama was the only one left. Elle tried to take Mama’s hands in her own, but she just passed through her. Again. I’m going to be stuck like this forever. She sank to the floor. 

“Ana,” Elle choked out, tears streaming down her transparent cheeks, staring through her trembling hands, “I see ghost blue…”